


Crystalline

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Ice Play, Ice Powers, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-14 03:30:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2176404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Gray isn’t wearing pants when the knock comes at his door." Gray gets an unexpected visitor, and falls back into old habits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crystalline

Gray isn’t wearing pants when the knock comes at his door.

It’s hardly his fault. He lives alone, after all, and it’s not like anyone  _prefers_  wearing pants to wearing just boxers. He’s not expecting a visitor, and all he’s planning to do is lay on his bed, maybe read a magazine or just form fragile ice sculptures in the magical equivalent of doodling to pass the time. He’s in the middle of one when the sound startles him upright, his heart pounding with the first rush of unwarranted panic at the sound.

“One sec!” he shouts as acknowledgment, closing his hand so the delicate tracery of crystals collapses down to a few droplets of water. He can’t even remember where his clothing from earlier today ended up; after a brief panicked search he gives up entirely, turns to the crumpled pair of jeans from yesterday. The second knock, louder and more insistent, comes as he’s shaking out the worst of the wrinkles from the fabric.

“I said I’m coming!” he yells again. His voice drops lower with the heat burning through his skin, panic and irritation indistinguishable in his blood, and he keeps talking, lower and just to himself, as he struggles into his pants. “Come by unannounced and unexpected, a guy needs a few minutes to get ready. Better than answering the door naked, isn’t it?”

“Gray.”

It’s not his name that makes Gray go still with his fingers still at the fly of his jeans. Even through the door, he knows that voice, he’d know that voice anywhere. His words trail off into a wordless grumble and he turns towards the door without finishing his motion, without even thinking of reaching for a shirt before he yanks the door open.

It’s not like Lyon has any room to criticize his clothing choices, after all.

The other mage has one arm thrown out against the frame of Gray’s door, is leaning in so close to the frame that his shoulders are blocking the brighter light from the hallway. He’s only half-dressed himself, though he has achieved the pants Gray didn’t quite manage and a jacket that offers the pretense of modesty. It’s still open in the front, though, baring enough skin that Gray’s eyes jump down from Lyon’s smirk to catch at his shoulder, at the edge of blue just visible under his coat, before the other mage speaks.

“You didn’t have to put on clothes for me.” He’s smiling when Gray’s eyes snap back up to his eyes, a tiny collection of tension at the corner of his mouth that’s as good as a full-blown grin from someone else.

“I didn’t know it  _was_  you,” Gray snaps, but he steps out of the doorway anyway, turns his back and leaves Lyon to push the door shut himself. “If you had started with that I would have come to the door faster.” He hesitates over his clothes -- it seems contrary to his own statement to finish with his jeans, but taking them off is a little more forward than he’s ready for. He’s not actually sure  _why_  Lyon’s here, after all, though he has some pretty detailed ideas and Lyon’s smile is offering corroboration for them all. He’s still got his hands at the edge of the denim, frowning in unconscious concentration at the problem, when there’s the sound of fabric shifting from behind him.

“I hope you don’t mind if I make myself comfortable,” Lyon says, and Gray glances back just as he drapes his coat over the back of a chair. That’s a pretty clear invitation after all, even before Lyon looks up to catch Gray’s lingering gaze. “You don’t need to stand on ceremony with me, of all people.”

Gray moves fast, not sure if he’s responding to the taunt or the invitation in Lyon’s words. It doesn’t matter. He  _is_  more comfortable as soon as he’s shed his jeans and kicked them back to the corner; the momentary flicker of self-consciousness is easy to ignore after years of practice, years of becoming more comfortable in his own skin than anything else.

He thinks, at first, that Lyon might follow his example with the rest of his clothing too. But he doesn’t complain when the other mage steps forward instead, doesn’t move away when Lyon tips his head like he’s considering a problem or admiring a particularly nice example of magic. Even when Lyon’s fingers brush icy against his skin he doesn’t pull away, although the chill draws a sharp, startled breath out of him.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Lyon says. He’s watching his fingers drag over Gray’s skin; Gray can feel the prickle of ice forming in the wake of his touch, crystalline patterns that melt nearly immediately. He doesn’t look away from Lyon’s face, but he lets some of his usual body heat fade into chill under Lyon’s touch. The other mage starts to smile as he sees the patterns under his fingertips lingering, shifts his palm to rest his whole hand against Gray’s stomach before he looks up. His mouth is still pulled tight at the corner, curving up into a smile that touches the dark of his eyes starry with suggestion.

Gray lifts his hand, curls his fingers in against the bare skin of Lyon’s waist. The other mage is warm to the touch; Gray leans in closer, keeps his eyes fixed on the corner of Lyon’s mouth. “If I do I’ll tell you,” he promises, and Lyon laughs in the moment before Gray’s lips touch his. His mouth is as warm as his skin, as warm as Gray remembers, and when Lyon takes a half-step closer the ice frosting under his fingers melts away until there’s just his skin pressed in against Gray’s. They’re both warm, this close, even warmer when Lyon’s free hand flattens in against Gray’s shoulder to pull him in nearer still. Gray shuts his eyes for a minute, lets the slide of Lyon’s fingers over his skin and Lyon’s tongue against his mouth pull his attention into hazy pleasure for a moment of distraction. When he matches his first hand with a second, brackets Lyon in place by his hold on the other mage’s body, Lyon purrs so far back in his throat Gray would miss it if he couldn’t feel the vibration humming sensation against his lips.

“You’re wearing a lot,” he says as Lyon shifts sideways, presses hot kisses in against Gray’s neck instead of his mouth. Gray is obedient to the unstated request in that, tips his head up and back while his fingers slide down, follow the angle of Lyon’s hipbones down to the top edge of his pants.

Lyon laughs against his collarbone, lets Gray’s shoulder go so he can rest his fingers against the other’s arm. He trails his fingertips all the way down the inside of Gray’s arm and elbow and wrist, can curl his thumb under the edge of his pants and his fingers around Gray’s wrist.

“Are you complaining?” Lyon shifts his weight like he’s pulling away for a moment, he sighs warm breath down across Gray’s chest; then he’s on his knees, his hand is coming sideways to brush against Gray’s waist and he’s pressing his mouth to the other’s stomach, opening his mouth so he can touch his tongue to the ice-damp still clinging to Gray’s skin.

Gray shivers like he never does from just cold, arches back to press himself in closer against Lyon’s mouth, and the other mage laughs before Gray can pull his thoughts around into “Yeah, I am.”

“Sorry,” Lyon purrs. He doesn’t move his mouth away; Gray can feel the vibration of his words under his skin, setting his blood on fire and bringing his breath too-fast in his lungs, desperate and as anxious as the fingers he’s absently winding into Lyon’s white hair. “You have my permission to fix that.”

Gray rolls his eyes, even though the other mage isn’t looking at him at all. “Yeah, I’d love to as soon as you stand back up.”

“You don’t want me to stand up.” Lyon’s head comes sideways, his tongue drags down over the line of Gray’s hipbone, and Gray gasps sharp and startled, rocks forward involuntarily in encouragement and in pursuit of the friction he’s not quite getting where he wants it.

“Oh?” Gray manages, though he sounds more like he’s on the verge of a laugh than truly curious. He’s never been very good at feigning innocence, after all. “Don’t I?”

“No,” Lyon says, and pulls back, comes sideways to press his mouth in close against the tented fabric of Gray’s boxers. The contact is enough on its own to bring Gray curling in over Lyon’s head, whining like he can’t remember properly how to breathe, but then Lyon exhales hard against the fabric and the rush of heat makes him shudder, to drag his fingers into an accidental fist in Lyon’s hair.

“Okay,” Gray admits. “Yeah, you’re right, I don’t want you to stand up.”

He can feel Lyon’s huffed laugh through the thin fabric, for all that it’s too soft for his ears to catch. The other mage lifts his head an inch, licks against Gray’s stomach again, and Gray would voice some protest at this loss of sensation except that Lyon’s fingers are curling over the edge of his boxers, drawing them down so carefully the catch of his fingernails against Gray’s skin is more teasing than anything else. But his tongue is sliding lower too, following the top edge of the fabric as he slides it off the other’s hips, and Gray doesn’t voice a protest. He doesn’t make any sound at all beyond his too-fast breathing until Lyon’s hands come down to his knees and Lyon’s tongue touches against his cock; then he flinches from the warmth, shuts his eyes and breathes out hard, and when he takes another breath it’s to groan “ _Lyon_ ” in a tone that is as much a warning as a plea.

There’s a hum, amusement purring up Lyon’s throat and out into where his lips are pressed to Gray’s skin; then he shifts, there’s the friction of his mouth dragging up, and Gray takes a lungful of anticipation in the moment before Lyon slides his lips down over him. The tremor that runs through him is all instinct, no deliberation; the feel of Lyon’s mouth is hot and uncannily familiar. Gray shouldn’t remember this so clearly; he can barely call up the memories in his own head, he’s hashed over the past so many times it’s indistinguishable from pure fantasy at this point. But his memory has nothing to do with this, his blood is surging in waves instantly responsive to the shift of Lyon’s tongue on him and the catch of cold-chapped lips against his skin. The tingle in his fingertips says that he does remember after all, as clearly as the smooth rhythm of Lyon’s motions and the gentle scrape of nails against Gray’s skin says Lyon remembers how they fit together too.

“Jesus,” Gray says. His fingers are still curled tight around Lyon’s hair; when he pulls he can feel Lyon chuckle, though the other mage doesn’t draw back. “Lyon, wait, you should stop.”

Lyon pulls away immediately, responsive to the words as he wasn’t to the pull at his hair. When he looks up his eyes are endless, wide and dark and pinning all his attention on Gray’s face. His mouth is still open, his lips parted like an invitation, and Gray can’t drag his gaze up once his eyes settle on the soft curve of Lyon’s lower lip.

Lyon smiles, a quick flash of teeth, and his fingers draw tight at Gray’s hips for just a moment. “You’re shaking.” It’s a statement rather than a question; Gray didn’t even realize his legs were trembling until Lyon’s words pull his attention back to the fact. “You want me to stop?”

He’s still smiling, his touch is still lingering; the heat of his hands on Gray’s skin is enough to distract the other mage, to draw him curling in closer so he can slide his fingers down against the back of Lyon’s neck, across the expanse of his shoulders, before he realizes that second  _was_  a question, that Lyon is waiting for an answer.

“I don’t,” he blurts.

Lyon hums at the touch, shuts his eyes and tips his head forward so his hair brushes ticklish over Gray’s hip and his spine pushes up into visibility under his skin, like he’s offering himself for the exploration of Gray’s fingers. “Was I doing something wrong?”

It’s a question, but Gray can hear the prickle of laughter under the words, can picture the knowing smirk on Lyon’s face even if he can’t see it. He shoves his free hand back into Lyon’s hair, pulls deliberately hard, and earns himself an audible chuckle even before he huffs, “ _No_ , you were doing everything  _right_.”

“What’s the problem, then?” Lyon asks. He turns his head, pulls his hair free of Gray’s hold, and then he’s getting to his feet without stepping away, so close that when he shifts his weight his pants catch against Gray’s length and drag against him with enough friction Gray rocks in for more.

“I’d rather you were doing something else,” Gray half-offers, half-suggests. Lyon’s close enough now that he can slide his hands down between them, pull at the front of the other’s clothes with more intention than grace. He misses entirely with one hand, succeeds only in shoving his palm against Lyon’s pants, but the other mage hisses in reaction and grabs at his shoulder, leans in to press his lips to Gray’s collar and scrape his teeth over the skin in not-quite-a-bite, so Gray doesn’t worry much about his lack of coordination. Besides, he’s hooked his other thumb over the top of Lyon’s waistband, is sliding down to the warmth of usually-covered skin, and while he halfheartedly pulls at the other’s button he can work his fingers down into Lyon’s clothes, brush his fingers against the radiant resistance of the other mage’s length.

Lyon exhales hard into his shoulder. Gray can feel the air collect against his shoulder like it’s liquid for the span of a breath, a heartbeat before it drifts away and leaves only the tingling afterimage behind. “I’d rather I was too.”

Gray gives up on the button entirely. “Here.” He slides his hand free, grabs at Lyon’s hips to push him away bodily as if he’s trying to detach from a magnetic force. “Get your clothes off.” Lyon’s laughing at that when Gray turns away, the sharpness of his smile belying the softness in his eyes, but Gray knows that expression, he can call it up at a moment’s notice, and he really  _does_  want to move them to the bed, at least. He kicks his feet free of the boxers tangled around his ankles, moves to the desk so he can drag a drawer open, scramble through the jumble of miscellany within to find the bottle he’s looking for.

He’s just found it, is shoving the drawer shut after retrieving it when an arm comes up over his shoulder. “You should keep this more accessible,” Lyon says from behind him as he tugs the lube free of Gray’s hold. “Or do you not expect to use it much?”

“You usually tell me when you’re coming by,” Gray says without thinking. Then he catches up to the question under Lyon’s statement, the implication of his own answer, and hastily backpedals. “I mean. I can always find it when I need it.  _Whenever_  I need it. For  _whoever_.” He starts to turn around, reaching back up to take the bottle back in spite of the crimson climbing into his cheeks, but a hand closes on his shoulder, an arm presses across his back like a brace.

“Don’t bother,” Lyon purrs. The shove from his arm propels Gray forward, knocks his center of balance so he has to stumble to keep his feet, throw a hand out to catch himself on the wall. Lyon follows too fast for Gray to turn around, the pressure of his arm back almost before it’s gone. “You gave yourself away already.”

“Shut up,” Gray snaps. He glances sideways, at the bed just a few steps away. “Do you want to move?”

“No.” Lyon’s arm lets up but he steps in closer at the same time, slides one foot between Gray’s and leans in so his hips are pressed in against the other mage’s, so Gray can feel the hard shape of him without needing to turn and look. When Lyon’s mouth comes down against his shoulder it’s deliberately cold, chilled like his lips are frosted over with ice before they brush Gray’s skin. Gray doesn’t shiver. He takes a breath, shuts his eyes and lets his head hang, shifts his hand against the wall to a more deliberate angle instead of the accidental catch of his first reflexive motion. Lyon opens his mouth against Gray’s shoulder, licks against the chilled skin, and if his lips are cold his tongue is hotter by comparison, so warm Gray’s breath slides out of his control and forms itself into a gasp.

Lyon’s laugh hums through Gray’s shoulder like electricity, or a shiver without any of the accompanying chill. When a hand comes in against the other boy’s hip there’s the odd edge of the bottle still against Lyon’s palm, the force of the hold enough of a warning even before Lyon murmurs, “This’ll be a little cold.”

Gray’s throat tightens into a sharp laugh before he thinks of it, the cough-amusement more involuntary than deliberate. “You think  _I_  can’t handle cold?”

“I’m just trying to be considerate.” Gray can hear the smile rumbling under Lyon’s words, the not-quite laugh just at the margins of the sound, before cool fingers touch against the very base of his spine and catch all his attention away from the sound of Lyon’s voice and to the movement of Lyon’s fingers. The contact is teasingly light, so faint if it weren’t for the chill of the liquid catching at Gray’s skin he wouldn’t be certain Lyon’s touching him at all as the other’s fingers slide down lower, far enough that Gray’s responsive flush burns off the cold entirely. By the time Lyon’s fingers are brushing against his entrance he’s breathing embarrassingly hard, his fingers drawing tight against the wall in anticipation of pressure that threatens but doesn’t follow through. Gray takes a breath, another, and he’s just letting out a third when his patience snaps.

“ _Fuck_ , Lyon, don’t be --”

He means to say ‘a tease,’ as if maybe by demanding he can overwrite this fundamental characteristic of the other mage. But he’s halfway through the syllables of Lyon’s name when the promise is kept, there’s a sudden increase of pressure that startles his words into a groan, drag his fingernails catching uselessly at the wall in involuntary reaction to the sensation. Lyon shifts his wrist, slides his hand in another half-inch, and Gray lets what’s left of his air out deliberately slowly, forces the tension in his shoulders to relax. It’s not  _painful_ , exactly, just unfamiliar from too much of a delay since the last time Lyon’s fingers were inside him.  
“Are you okay?” Lyon asks, his tone taking on all the resonance of chivalry even as he slides his hand back, gently thrusts back in so Gray can’t get a full breath of air. “Do you want me to stop?”

Gray’s not sure if the question is a taunt or sincere, doesn’t bother mustering the attention to care. It doesn’t change his answer, anyway. “ _No_ , fuck, I don’t want you to stop.”

Lyon curls his finger, drags sensation in the wake of his hand as he pulls back out an inch, and Gray huffs and starts to shift his weight even before Lyon rocks in against his hip, presses hard to urge him forward. Lyon moves with him without being told, comes in close so Gray can angle his arm against the wall, press his whole forearm against the cool support of the wall and tip his head forward so he can rest his forehead on his arms. His blood is rushing hot, soothing unfamiliarity into excitement and instinctive resistance into adrenaline, and when he lets his breath go it comes out hard and low enough it’s as much a groan as an exhale.

“More,” he says, just over Lyon starting “Do you --” The other mage cuts himself off and Gray repeats himself, just in case the first was lost. “More, Lyon, come  _on_.” He tips his hips back, against Lyon’s hand and Lyon’s hips both, and this time the one who stutters a surprised breath is the other mage. It’s only for a moment; then Lyon is shoving in against him, all vestige of teasing gone, and Gray is so distracted by the heat of the other mage’s length digging in against his hip that he doesn’t realize Lyon’s hand is shifting until there are two fingers stretching him open. The pressure carries a whole new wave of heat with it, rushing out from the friction of Lyon’s fingers until Gray feels like he’s burning, like the other’s touch is direct sunlight on winter-chill skin.

“Oh god,” he’s saying without thinking, “Lyon, that’s --” and he wants to say  _too much_ , wants to say  _slow down_ , but the heat is melting his knees into pleasure and he’s slumping forward against the wall and can’t form the decision to tell Lyon to stop, after all.

There’s damp at his shoulder, a tongue dragging across his shoulderblade, and then Lyon’s mouth presses against him. Gray can feel the ice forming against his skin, the soothing cool of the other mage’s lips going deliberately chill on him, and he’s trained himself to relax into that, that is so instinctive he doesn’t even have to think about it. His breath sighs out and Lyon’s fingers come in deeper, and with the ice at his shoulder it’s easier to ride out the rush of sensation, to wait until it has collected into a pool of growing heat low in his stomach.

Gray’s so caught in the surge of heat under his skin in time to the thrust of Lyon’s fingers that he doesn’t notice when Lyon starts smiling in satisfaction, doesn’t realize the other’s motions have fallen into a rhythm. Lyon’s hand draws back, and Gray is taking a breath in anticipation for another thrust when the pressure slides away entirely, leaving a chill of loss in place of the rising warmth. There’s a moment of instinctive protest, a bubble of complaint rising in his throat, but Gray closes his mouth on the words so all that forces up his throat is a muffled whimper, even when Lyon’s mouth leaves his shoulder and the other mage steps back and away from him. It gives Gray a moment to steady his weight, shift his feet wider apart and curl his hands tight and bracing around the inside of his elbows.

When Lyon’s hands come back to his hips the other mage has set the bottle aside, his palm lies flat against Gray’s skin without the interruption of the other object, and there’s no chill to his touch at all, either because he’s let it go deliberately or because he lacks the attention to hold it. That’s okay. Gray doesn’t need the hint to relax this time, not when his skin is humming with anticipation and it’s all he can do to resist the urge to rock his weight back and grind up against Lyon’s hips.

He almost expects the other to breathe in against his neck, maybe lean in close against him for a moment so Gray can feel the promise of skin against skin. But there’s just the catch of a breath, a question Lyon doesn’t quite decide to ask, and then the other mage is pressing against him, Lyon’s length is hard against Gray’s entrance, and Gray sighs around a groan and relaxes against the thrust. Lyon starts to slide into him, too fast for a moment before he can catch the movement back into control, slow the forward rock of his hips to a careful push. It’s still enough to draw Gray’s fingers tight on his arms, squeeze his eyelids tight over his darkened vision; his throat tightens, the air leaves his lungs in a whimpered moan, and Lyon’s hands draw tight on his hips.

“Are you okay?” Gray can hear the tension under Lyon’s words, all the other’s usual easy control blown away into tight-wound reaction. It’s as clear as the fingers on his skin, the way they’re hot instead of actively chill, as clear as the catching sound of Lyon’s breath at the end of the sentence.

“Yeah,” Gray says, more from impulse than accuracy. “Yeah, it’s just --” He shifts his weight, forces his hands to relax on his arms. “ _Ah_ , it’s been a while.”

“You feel --” Lyon starts. Gray can hear the hiccup in his words, the way coherency vanishes as he reaches for words that won’t come. “Gray.” That’s soft, melting out over his tongue, and Lyon lets one of his hands go so he can reach around Gray’s hip. His mouth comes back to Gray’s shoulder, his fingers brush up over Gray’s length, and his mouth is warm but his hand is cold with focus. The contrast makes Gray jerk, sudden and surprised by the chill against hot skin, and he can feel Lyon smile before his hips come forward and he thrusts the rest of the way into Gray.

Gray’s hold on his elbow slips. He rocks forward against the wall, makes a strange sound that is mostly a gasp and a little bit a shout as all the nerve endings in his body come alight trying to decide if that’s pain or pleasure. Lyon pushes at his hip, shoves him up closer towards the wall, and the hand around his draws tighter, pulls tingling sensation and chill together up over him. That’s enough to make the decision for him. The tingle of sensation bleeds into a wave, smooth and hot, and Gray braces his hand flat on the wall and presses his forehead to the support and says, “ _Fuck_ , Lyon.”

“More?” Lyon asks, and strokes his hand down and back up even before Gray has choked a laugh and nodded, formed his mouth into the agreement the other wants.

“ _More_.”

Lyon’s hand stalls but his hips move, pulling back so he can thrust forward, leaning in hard enough that Gray’s weight tips forward and against the wall before he starts to move his hand again. Gray’s eyes are shut but he’s not seeing darkness anymore, everything is sparkling crystalline like his nerve endings are spilling into his vision, like his skin isn’t enough to hold the heat melting all the strength out of his limbs. Lyon’s grip is still chill against him but Gray’s getting warmer; Lyon’s is moving out-of-time with himself, his hand and his hips offset so there’s no pause in the sensation, so Lyon’s thrusts are rocking Gray forward harder into the other’s touch. Lyon’s breathing is coming faster against Gray’s shoulder, or maybe it’s Gray’s own inhales that are coming faster and higher in his chest, like he can’t get a full breath. He can feel Lyon’s pace going unsteady over him, the other’s hand is moving faster but out-of-rhythm, and he doesn’t realize why for a moment until he lets out a lungful of air and realizes he’s moaning, faint and far back in his throat, with every one of Lyon’s movements. The cold is finally starting to fade as Lyon’s concentration slips, but his hand is stroking faster and harder up over Gray’s length, and when Lyon thrusts up into him there’s a burst of white behind Gray’s shut eyes, a sound like a wail in his throat, and all the tension under his skin shivers into flooding pleasure.

Lyon keeps his hold, slides idle contact up over Gray’s skin until the other offers a shaky exhale of satisfaction and lets some semblance of stability reform along his spine. Then Lyon lets go, leans in closer so he can lay his own hand flat on the wall. Gray can feel his breathing going warmer, hot against his shoulder like maybe he  _was_  keeping his lips more chill than they would be naturally, like only just now is the last of his control slipping. Lyon’s fingers are tensing against the support; when Gray blinks he can see the oncoming release as clearly as if it’s written in the sharp angle of Lyon’s wrist. He takes a sharp breath, broken into pieces around the steady motion of Lyon’s thrusts, and lifts his hand to brush his fingers against the back of the other’s fingers. The ice has only just formed under his touch when Lyon stiffens and gasps around the sound of Gray’s name. The fingers at his waist clutch into desperation; then Lyon sighs, the sound heavy with pleasure and exhaustion both, and his hand goes gentle as the warmth of his breath tickles against Gray’s shoulder.

“I missed you,” Gray says, before Lyon has pulled away, before he has had a chance to think better of it.

He can feel Lyon smile, can hear the unguarded pleasure sparkling off his voice when he says, “Shall I come to you sooner, next time?”

Gray lays his hand on top of Lyon’s, against the wall. “Yes,” he says, and when the pattern of frost starts to spread under their fingertips, he’s not sure whose magic it is.


End file.
